The Diary Project
by corkchop
Summary: No, this isn't a diary. It's a man-journal. Obviously. This written recording of a year of my life is highly confidential. In fact, why are you reading this still? Didn't you hear me? Stop reading this instant. Or someone will get hurt. I can't afford for you to see my personal life. Well. . . don't say I didn't warn you.


**1. **

Dear man-journal,

Before you, my nosy audience, starts making any accusatory assumptions, let me clarify: I am being _forced_ to do this. This is not my want to any degree. Pinkie promise. Seriously.

This is not a diary. This is not even a journal. We men are not supposed to jot our most certainly nonexistent feelings in one.

So then, how in the name of Luke Cahill himself, did I end up having to record all my so-called emotions?

Mr. Steele, my advanced English teacher, has high-strung hopes and dreams for us getting shipped to a notable college. Naturally, he had to decide we are not going to do the _norm_, like an actual essay, but instead we have to document our extremely interesting adolescent lives for a year.

Whoop-de-doo.

For about ninety percent of my school's male population, that translates to getting drunk at parties and completely ruining your already pathetic life. As if you can declare their existence even that.

What should I call this insult to the manly universe, then? How about a man-journal? That sounds exquisite—Ian Kabra's man-journal: a swish and a dive into his intricate, awe-inspiring life.

This assignment will be twelve-month standing humiliation trip. I know this will result horrendously, no matter what measure I take, because, you know, my family. The annual Cahill family "Alliance" happened. Now I have to tell you about it.

But, pfft, whenever those words are dropped, a hysterical image of my beloved family members in tea cozies pops in my mind. That makes all the hell I'm going through loads better.

Immature, maybe; hilarious, definitely.

What were we discussing again? Oh yes, the oh-so-tranquil Alliance. Okay; moving on.

For once in your life, listen, I never want this to happen again. Forever and always. I do not care what it takes; ship me to Africa, take away my beloved polo pony, _anything _but this. Have I caught your attention now? I hope so. Maybe you will absorb some of what I'm telling you at last.

If you feel the urge to laugh or even smile the tinniest bit when I describe what happened on that fateful day, don't. It still burns.

So there I was, minding my own beeswax in my bedroom, when Natalie swoops in like a glorious flamingo. (Wait, can flamingos fly?)

"Ian," she says importantly. "It's time."

I blink rapidly, staring at her dumbly. "For what?"

"Seriously, brother, dear—the Alliance!" Natalie waves her hands with exasperation. I notice that she has delicate-looking gold bangles hanging limply from her wrists. That was not casual wear.

Bloody hell; I had completely forgotten. "When does it start?" I say with a calm composure, to masquerade my confusion.

"Already five minutes ago, you git! Everybody is arriving."

"Oh, God," I curse. "Get out of here! I need to change!" My voice is nearing the shrill pitch of Natalie's, and that is never a good sign.

I shove her out the door with little resistance, except for a miniscule yelp of complaint. "Got to get ready," I mutter frantically. "How can I be such a bloody moron and forget?!"

After shoving on a pair of dress socks and a black suit, I find myself in the bathroom mechanically combing my raven black hair. When I take in my reflection, I see a frantic, almost feral look in my eyes—like a cornered raccoon.

_I need to breathe_, I soothe myself. _Take ten deep breaths. Slow, easy ones; your heart is only pumping maniac as Secretariat._

Now, now, pause a moment here. Why was I, Ian Kabra, billionaire, absolutely positively freaked out? (excluding the fact that I am miserably late to this sour gathering.)

_Oh yeah._

I, Ian, am in love with Amy Cahill.

There's only on tad problem. She does not know yet—but this is my golden opportunity. She is here—live—at the party right now. All I have to do is demonstrate what I learned to do at a young age—saunter over and converse charmingly. Mingle. Social interaction. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

So, why am I thinking something along the lines of "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"?

I really need to see a physiatrist, duh.

Oh my word, I am acting like such a pansy. Father would be so disappointed. I just need to tough it out. I'm a macho and suave and charismatic and exceedingly handsome man. That is correct. I'm a macho and suave and charismatic and exceedingly handsome man. That is correct. Rub in, wash, and rinse. Repeat if necessary.

I sound like the freaking instructions on a bottle of shampoo.

I glare into the mirror and attempt to summon a confident demeanor. The "macho" man meeting my eyes steadily looks the opposite of intended. I say out loud, "Who's a macho and brave man? You are!"

That is of upmost accuracy. I am the most macho and brave man in this building! I wholly believe it. Amy better, too.

_Totally. You, Ian Kabra, are splendiferous. _

_Why, thank you_. I answer back gracefully. _Wait? Who the bloody hell are you?_

A pragmatic voice, the same speaker as before, chimes in, _oh, just a voice in your head. Nothing new. I'm here to brighten your day!_

_Nice to meet you, Mr., uhh, Voice. Do you have a name? _

_Now that you speak of it, yes. I've always fancied myself as a Bellerophron. _

_You're kidding me. Bellerophron. _I almost burst into hysterical laughter, but I do not. A Kabra is an honorable man, and honorable men do not make fools of themselves.

My new pet creepy voice within my head adds helpfully_, Bellerophron is a perfectly normal name, you know._

_Absolutely; around the time it was considered fashionable to be overweight, maybe? _

_Don't be mean! I'm going to be in your head full-time, Romeo. You might even get some love advice for your Juliet._

_I don't love anybody, _I complain.

_Yes you do._

_No I do not._

_Yes._

_No._

_Yes._

_No._

_Yes._

_Will you shut up?_

_No._

_I don't even care anymore. _I say to "Bellerophron". _Leave me alone._

_Okay, ta-ta._

I sigh—it is a sound of intense relief. Bantering with the everyday voice in your head is not exactly a picnic, you know.

Suddenly, the same panic fills my mind as prior the attack of weirdo voices. What time is it? I got to get ready! Furious with the voice for distracting me, I rake the comb through my sleek hair one last time, straighten my already pin-perfect tie, and quickly step down towards the ballroom. _Hurry, hurry. _

Since when has the staircase taken this long to get down? I feel as if every second is minutes, and every minute is hours. When I reach the last twirl of the stairs going down, I feel immensely relieved—I'm only twenty minutes late. Time is money, quite frankly, but it looks as if I've been spared.

If only so.

_Wait, _the resident voice says. _Do you even have a plan of action? How are you going to win her heart?_

_I told you already. I don't love her._

_But if you do, what would you do?_

_Plans are for wimps. Can you shut up now?_

_You'll regret it, _Bellerophron the stalker voice crows as if he owns me.

_The only thing I regret is not having a dart gun that can knock out voices. Hint, hint._

The voice shut up. A surprise, honestly.

Glaring at the never ending staircase behind me (IanKabra2013RightsReserved) I don't look where I'm ambling merrily and merrily to, and of course I crash into a person—the girl on the top of my list for not bulldozing into like a moronic Tomas.

Amy Cahill.

We both end up sprawling on the floor. Her elbow is in my gut and one of my sadly scuffed shoes lands in her coppery hair.

"What in the world are you trying to do?" I lash at her, desperately trying to cover up my awkwardness. ". . . kill me?"

"No, I was actually trying to find the bathroom. You know, the place you boys like to mess up?" Her scathing reply burned.

Gosh. What happened to Miss Bookworm? Major personality change, hello! Yoo-hoo!

"Sorry, we boys tend to do that. Mess up. Today, it's trying to kill our beloved cousins. Funny, you know what? _Déjà vu_. I thought we already did that theme constantly, like _three years ago_. " I answer back to her.

"I got to go, Mr. Kabra." Amy rolls her eyes at me and then stomps off.

They're a startling shade of green, like in my memory; so deep and meaningful. One day, I vowed, those jade eyes would look passionately back at my amber ones. When that day would come, I would kiss her so much and never stop. I bet it would feel good to kiss her. I wanted to right now, actually. /NOW./

Bloody hell, stupid hormones. I got to keep them under control.

Girls do not realize how hard it is to be a guy. They have it so easy, and we don't. Even a strikingly handsome one like me, Ian Kabra.

_What about a plan next time? _The aggravating voice, Bellerophron, was back for a cup of tea and a heavy gloat. _You know, it might be a good idea to listen to Uncle Bellerophron._

_I know. I'll listen next time. But can you do me one favor?_

_Absolutely._

_Snuff it._

* * *

**AN:** A big thank you and shout to my fabulous beta, Seabound, for correcting my mistakes.

Thank you for reading. I love reviews, by the way, Especially ridiculously lengthy, concrit-y reviews. Hint, hint.

Best wishes and all that,  
Emily.


End file.
